


Bee My Valentine

by CindyLouWho, EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Retirement, Sherstrade Month 2017, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CindyLouWho/pseuds/CindyLouWho, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Greg and Sherlock have retired and are living in a house on the Sussex Downs. Sherlock has been hesitating to get his bees, but Valentine's day is here and Greg never could resist making Sherlock happy.This is absolute pure, unadulterated fluff.Updated with a second chapter which is as, if not more, fluffy than the first.(Apologies for the pun in the title, but when an opportunity like that presents itself...)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
> 
> The idea for this came from CindyLouWho during a discussion about Sherlock and Greg's life after Baker Street. 
> 
> I know nothing about beekeeping, other than that bees live in hives, and beekeepers wear white net suit things. 
> 
> Irredeemable fluff, but it is Valentine's day. 
> 
> Feedback is loved :)
> 
>  
> 
> Not bee'tad (sorry, couldn't help it!) so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Incorporates day 14's Sherstrade month prompts: woods and field.

_**From: Jim Stapleton:** will be there in 20. Going 2 bk gate unless hear otherwise_

Greg worked his phone into the front left pocket of his jeans and got out of the car, stretching to work the kinks out of his lower back. He'd been lucky as far as his health was concerned, having reached his mid-sixties with nothing more serious than a slightly dodgy back and a bit of a wheeze in the mornings, which he put down to years of smoking before managing to kick the habit fifteen years ago. 

He looked up at the house, a traditional cottage set in a large parcel of land, bordered by a small wood on one side and a stream on the other, still unable to believe that it was actually his. Well, his and Sherlock’s, but still. He'd never dreamt that he would be able to afford such a home, but between his pension, savings, his flat selling for well above the asking price, and Sherlock’s income and savings, they'd been able to easily afford their dream home. His husband wanting to move away from London had been something of a surprise, but their year living in the Sussex countryside had worked wonders on the younger man. Not that he had _mellowed_ , of course, but to Greg, who had seen him through addiction, bereavement, and loss, the positive changes wrought were obvious.

He opened the front door, stepping into the large hallway, and inadvertently onto a pile of mail which hadn't been collected. “Sherlock?” he called, flicking through the envelopes and finding nothing but rubbish. 

There was no response from his husband, but Arthur and Conan, a pair of stray cats who had attached themselves to Sherlock within days of them moving in to the house, despite his disdain for them, appeared from the direction of the kitchen. “He out back?” The look Arthur gave him was so reminiscent of Sherlock that Greg had to laugh. “Of course.”

He made his way through the house, depositing the post in the recycling bin in the kitchen en route, and out the of back door into the large garden, which was littered with experiments and strange, homemade contraptions. He followed the path out through the gate into the field that abutted their garden; the hedges needed trimming, but the grass was kept short by Doyle and Rupert, a pair of goats who had been rescued by a local animal charity and had been in need of a foster home as they recovered from severe malnutrition. Sherlock had scorned him for being taken in by their sob story initially, but Greg had caught him brushing and petting them on an almost daily basis since; he even had photographic evidence, which made wonderful blackmail material when the younger man was being obstinate about hosting his parents for Sunday dinner. 

Rounding the corner, Greg had to smile when he eventually spotted his husband; he was walking along his row of beehives, which were yet to actually house any bees, with Doyle and Rupert trailing behind. Stealthily, Greg crossed the field until he was within hearing range of Sherlock; whether he was muttering to himself or the goats Greg couldn't tell, but a steady stream of babble about the variety of plants in the surrounding fields and how much and which type of honey his bees would produce was spilling from his lips with endearing enthusiasm. 

Doyle, a medium-sized black goat with splashes of white across his nose, spotted Greg first and bleated a greeting. “No,” Sherlock said distractedly, looking down at the animal. “The literature specifically states that bovidae are to be fed a limited amount of fruit, and you've had more than your quota for the day.”

Greg laughed, unable to restrain it, and Sherlock spun to face him with a glare. Approaching fifty he might be, but to Greg he was more attractive than he ever had been. Hair streaked with grey and carrying a little weight about his middle, he seemed human in a way that he hadn't in the early years of their acquaintance. Something that had not changed, however, was the razor sharp intellect and ability to read Greg’s whole day in one glance. Despite years of exposure to Sherlock’s methods, the younger man still regularly left Greg feeling exposed and naked with nothing more than a sweep of his pale eyes. 

“When are these fiends being moved on?” 

Greg looked down to find Rupert, a brown speckled goat, chewing on the hem of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive designer trousers and grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I quite like them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes shooed the goats away before turning back to the wooden hives, studying the closest one intently. Greg walked up behind him and wrapped an arm loosely around his waist. “The hive're ready to receive your first batch of bees, yeah?”

“It’s a swarm, not a batch. The hives are ready but I need to check that the—”

“—Sherlock, the hives have been built for months, you’ve had a shed full of supplies since before Christmas, and I’ve heard nothing but plans for this since we moved down here.”

Sherlock huffed, and Greg thought it was adorable. “Don't say it: I am not _cute_ ,” he spat, expression vaguely reminiscent of Conan when Arthur stole the last of the catnip treats.

“I was thinking more adorable than cute, but whatever you say,” Greg replied cheekily, leaning in for a kiss. During their years together they had shared every kind of kiss imaginable, from biting, angry kisses to sloppy, heat of the moment kisses. Greg’s favourite was still the sweet, almost hesitant meeting of lips, usually proceeded by a demanding, confident kiss that still had the ability to curl Greg’s toes, even ten years down the line. This kiss was one of the latter, and it reminded him of their early days when they'd shared a hunger for each other that had yet to be sated. It spoke of being with a man who gave as much as he took, and Greg fell for Sherlock a little more every time.

For all that this particular kiss started sweetly, Greg soon had one hand up the back of Sherlock’s shirt and the other tangled in his still-wild hair, and Sherlock had a knee wedged between Greg’s thighs. Sherlock pulled away eventually, moving to kiss his way down against Greg’s neck. “It’s too cold to be doing this out here.”

“Hmm, yes, but just give it a bit longer,” Greg replied, twisting his neck slightly so he could surreptitiously look down at his watch. 

“What—”

A sudden commotion from the bottom of the field, where a large five-bar gate gave access to the back lane, distracted Sherlock, and he turned around curiously. 

“All right, mates. Which one of you is Sherlock ‘olmes?” asked a man of middle age, who could only be Jim Stapleton. 

“Here he is,” Greg replied, nudging Sherlock forward. 

His husband glared at him but walked towards the stranger, curiosity getting the better of him. “I’m Sherlock. And you are?” 

“Jim Stapleton,” the newcomer said, shaking Sherlock’s hand. “I run an apiary a few villages over. Got a delivery for you; my lads are just unloading it and then we’ll bring ‘em through. There’s enough to fill two of them hives you’ve got there, so choose where you want ‘em going.” With that he turned and disappeared back through the gate, leaving Sherlock staring after him. 

Several long moments passed before Sherlock seemed to come back to himself, and he spun to face Greg with an energy that he used to reserve for only the most complex of murders. “This is your doing,” he accused, advancing on Greg, eyes shining with an emotion he rarely expressed. 

Greg smiled at his husband, cupping his cheek, and bestowed a brief, chaste kiss on his still-full lips. “Happy Valentine’s day, Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written with CindyLouWho, who has the best ideas.

Greg Lestrade was a patient man. Considering that he'd somehow been married to Sherlock Holmes for ten years, it would be fair to say that he was a _very_ patient man. However, even the most patient of men could be pushed to the edge, and he was rapidly approaching it. He'd been gone for two hours, stocking up on the essentials to see them through Mycroft and Gareth’s weekend visit. Inside the space of those two hours, Sherlock, his beloved, much adored husband, had managed to cover every sodding inch of the kitchen island with saucers holding dog treats. Not only had every one of their small plates been requisitioned for whatever experiment the younger man was currently conducting, but there were at least twenty open packets of treats scattered across the other worktops, too. 

“Sherlock!” he shouted, putting the shopping down in front of the fridge. “Sherlock!”

An excited bark and the rapid patter of paws on the hardwood floor of the hall was his answer. Ben, their seven month old Border Collie pup, skidded into the kitchen, tail wagging furiously. Annoyed as he was with Sherlock, Greg couldn't help but smile at Ben’s antics as he snuffled into the shopping bags. They had, initially, been fostering him, but within two weeks neither man could stomach the thought of letting him go, and they had taken permanent ownership of him.

“I’ve told you, repeatedly, not to shout; Ben hears you shouting and takes that as permission for him to do it,” Sherlock said as he entered the kitchen. He kissed Greg absently and turned to the island, consulting the clipboard he was holding. “He needed to urinate immediately after ingesting sample three, but considering the frequency of his toilet habits I won’t hold that against the treat.”

Greg stared at Sherlock’s back for a moment, annoyance biting. “Mycroft and Gareth are due in less than an hour and you’re doing God knows what with dog treats?” he snapped, bending to pick up one of the shopping bags and nudging Ben away from the others. “Shoo, you.”

Silence reigned and Greg felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, but he refused to look at the other man. Not that he'd ever really struggled to worm his way out of trouble with Greg, but Sherlock had definitely been taking lessons from Ben: even brief exposure to the younger man’s puppy dog eyes was detrimental to Greg’s willpower. 

“You’re annoyed.”

“Well spotted, genius,” Greg replied, exasperated, addressing a packet of chocolate Hobnobs rather than looking at his husband. 

“I need to know which of these Ben prefers. If I can establish that his training will progress more quickly, and we won’t need to herd Doyle and Rupert into their pen at night because he'll be able to do it for us.”

Greg put the milk and butter in the fridge and finally turned to face Sherlock, desperately fighting a smile at the thought of the younger man teaching a puppy to herd goats. He was clutching the clipboard to his chest and his hair was an absolute riot of curls from where he had, Greg assumed, been running his hands through it. Despite his initial reluctance to accept Ben into their home, Sherlock had quickly warmed to him, and there were soon training schedules stuck on the fridge and Sherlock’s designer trousers constantly smelt like dog treats from having his pockets stuffed with them. Between training the dog and beekeeping, he was well and truly kept busy, and often lost track of time. “I get that, Sherlock, but we have guests arriving soon, and you’ve not lifted a finger to help me get the house ready. Are you honestly telling me that testing the dog treats couldn’t have waited until after the weekend?”

“It’s only Mycroft and Gareth,” Sherlock said defensively, tightening his hold on the clipboard. “They’re coming to see us, not the house.”

Greg sighed. Even after ten years together, Sherlock was still very sensitive to actual discord between them. Criticism, even vicious insults, from people he didn't care about bounced off him like water off a duck’s back, but if there was genuine upset between him and Greg he retreated into himself like a scolded child. “I know, but I’d rather they didn’t get here and find piles of laundry lying around, or pots of honey on the sofa, or puppy training manuals next to the toilet.”

Sherlock smirked and put his clipboard down. “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his eyes coyly, and though Greg knew he was being played, it worked. 

“Come here.” Sherlock crossed the kitchen until he was standing in front of Greg, and the older man leant in for a gentle kiss, which Sherlock readily returned. “Can you get this lot cleaned up for me? I need to check something on the computer and I doubt I’ll have time when they get here. Gareth said he wants a proper look at your beehives, and between that and dinner the rest of the day'll be gone.”

“Fine. Where shall I hide the biscuits? If Mycroft knows we’ve got chocolate ones we’ll never see them again.”

A huffed laugh escaped Greg despite himself. “Behave,” he said, leaving the kitchen and making for the study. 

It was a large room with an open fireplace and two windows giving stunning views out to the back garden fields beyond. They had a desk each, but most of the space was taken up by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Greg no idea what most of the books were, but they certainly leant the room an aura of erudition, and looked impressive to boot. He quickly started up his computer, composing his planned update as he waited. Though he owned and was able to use a tablet and smartphone, he'd always been more comfortable using a proper computer, no matter how much his son mocked him for it. 

Quickly navigating to his website, www.aconsultingfarmer.co.uk, Greg was soon wholly focussed on typing out an update. 

**_Well, you’ll never guess what our favourite consulting farmer has taken to doing now? In addition to spreadsheets and training schedules, and pockets full of dog and goat treats, he’s conducting an experiment into Ben the Border Collie’s favourite treats so he can train him to herd Doyle and Rupert! If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s already turned a puppy who jumped at the sound of a door closing into a well-behaved pup inside of two months, I’d have my doubts, but I reckon the odds are in his favour. The only question is how long it will take. Answers on a postcard, please._**

So focussed was Greg on his blog that he didn't hear his husband approaching, or his entry into the study, and he was blissfully unaware of his presence until his spoke, voice dangerously low. “What, exactly, is this, Greg?” 

Greg spun on his desk chair, looking up at the younger man, feeling his face heat. “Ah, well—”

“A consulting farmer dot co dot UK,” Sherlock said, his emphasis of each word individually making them sound utterly ridiculous. “This is a blog. About me.”

Knowing that brazening it out was the only thing to do, Greg nodded. “Yeah. People love you,” he said, playing to Sherlock’s soft spot for praise. “I get emails asking how you’re doing if I don’t post something, and they love the pictures of your bees and the goats.” The blank expression on Sherlock’s face was becoming worrisome. “Come on, say something.”

“How many people follow this blog?”

His voice was devoid of emotion, and Greg felt something like dread settle in his gut. “A few over two thousand,” he replied quickly, speaking to Sherlock’s abdomen. 

The silence drew on and Greg eventually looked up. Much to his relief, there was an amused smile lurking about Sherlock’s lips. “At least you’re not exaggerating, I suppose,” he said, eyes sparkling. “I took some pictures of Ben with Doyle and Rupert at lunch time. Shall I send them to you?”

“You’re not angry?” 

Sherlock bent down and bestowed a reassuring kiss upon Greg’s lips. “No. I trust you not to post anything like the nonsense that John used to. Anyway, you’re telling the world that my genius encompasses animal husbandry, dog training and beekeeping as well as the science of deduction; why would I be angry?”


End file.
